


Teenage Angst

by cemetery_driven



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Basement Gerard Way, Fluff, Incest, M/M, Mental Illness, Panic Attacks, panic disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemetery_driven/pseuds/cemetery_driven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard has a panic attack again and Mikey's there to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teenage Angst

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda wrote this so I could write something that wasn't any of my 'verses which I have massive blocks on at the moment and want to cry about.

He just couldn't stop fucking shaking and it wasn't for a lack of trying, because he was trying. He was trying to breathe – six in, seven hold, eight out, six, seven, eight – but it wasn't fucking working because his lungs either stopped completely or went too fast for their own good, there was no middle ground. He didn't fucking _understand_. Nothing had fucking happened but he was still shaking like fuck-knows-what and trying to get oxygen steadily into his system. 

 

His stomach was churning and kicking and he wanted it to stop but even if somehow he did throw up – he never really did, not unless he was really fucking wasted or really fucking sick, neither of which applied at the moment – there wouldn't be much to get rid of but stomach acid and coffee. He knew he needed to eat, he wasn't stupid, he'd gone to fucking science like a good boy or whatever, he knew how the human body worked. He just couldn't bring himself to eat. The smell of food made him feel even worse, even the thought of it was the opposite of appealing. Not even pasta sounded good right now and that was a sure sign that something was incredibly  _wrong_ because he would eat fucking pasta by the bucket if it was humanly possible.

 

He'd done everything he could so far, everything his therapist recommended. She was lovely. It had got better since he'd started going to her. She didn't tell his parents about the still-getting-there issues with various intoxicants and other destructive habits. She didn't even tell his parents more than a few things she was probably meant to rat on him for. Her name was Lindsey and her voice wasn't as calming when it was repeating like a busted record in his head.

 

Mikey would be worried but he wasn't home just yet and even if he was, he wasn't in the basement, therefore he wasn't seeing it. Not that he didn't know how to deal with massive panic attacks, because, well, Mikey himself had them from time to time, albeit much less frequently and they were always different from person to person, but because... well, put bluntly, he felt like a burden when Mikey had to make it better because he couldn't do it himself.

 

He'd done things that were meant to help. It was cold out so a bunch of heavy blankets all bundled up around him, held up tight around his neck, wasn't resulting in a suffocating humidity, even though he still had the cold-sweat anyway. He'd counted, he'd curled into the little ball he always curled into. He used to do it to get to sleep. Count to eight over and over again – why it was eight, he wasn't sure, maybe it was a musical thing – and rock back and forth just-slightly in time with each number, create some kind of steady rhythm. He'd had the Dawn of the Dead soundtrack in the cassette player earlier, but it had ended a little while ago and he just knew that his legs wouldn't carry him back over to start it again from the beginning. It hadn't done much anyway. Usually it gave him something to focus on without having to read into lyrics, kind of a lullabyish background noise. Lindsey had said the things that help one sleep often help in times of panic. 

 

Except masturbating, she'd said, because that can actually trigger worse breathing patterns and cause a lot more issues and it's not like you'd be in the mood to rub one out when you're having a panic attack anyway.

 

He'd even gone so far as to dig out the little kitten plushie that Mikey had won him at the last carnival they'd gone to. Why he'd picked out a cat and given it to him, he'd never know. But it was black, and had cute little green eyes, and it was big enough to hold and sort of wrap around just enough to be a comfort. 

 

Nothing would make it fucking stop though, and he couldn't identify what had even fucking started it. That, that was possibly the worst part. There was no single thing that had made everything just fucking explode in a flurry of cold sweat and shakes. 

 

“Hey, Gee, I brought you some pizza.”

 

He didn't respond. He couldn't figure out an appropriate response to  _I brought you pizza_ . Words weren't working, nothing was working, his fucking lungs weren't working properly so god-knows whether his vocal chords were functional. Everything felt like it was just suffocating him, exceedingly slowly.

 

“You alright?”

 

He still couldn't respond, just grabbed the blankets tighter and tried to will his lungs into proper function. They wouldn't, he knew they wouldn't, they never did. They had to kick back into normalcy on their own, they had to do it. He couldn't control anything, really. Just throw his weight back-and-forth just enough to make him rock shallowly side to side. Rhythmic actions helped many cases, apparently – rocking, drumming fingers, whatever – but it wasn't even skimming the surface, let alone fixing anything. It was very, very mildly comforting at best. It was more like an instinctual thing to do, rather than a conscious choice to look like a fucking B-movie mental patient.

 

He felt Mikey's weight dip into the mattress beside him, and swallowed hard. He didn't even know why. He felt like a complete fucking idiot, he usually fucking did when he had the panics, but when someone saw, it felt a hundred times worse. Especially when he couldn't figure out the whole reasoning behind it. 

 

“I'm not stupid, you know,” Mikey murmured, resting his hand gently between Gerard's shoulderblades. It was warm, comforting. Human contact. Physical human contact, pressing pause on the cold sweat in that one place and replacing the icy with heat. It was almost electrical, but that always happened with Mikey. 

 

Mikey made everything better, even if it didn't show, even if the words weren't exactly forming through Gerard's rattling breaths and aching vocal chords.

 

“You want a drink? Soda? Coffee? Water?” Mikey asked, his fingers moving in the smallest circular motions, gentle and almost tentative. Like if he pressed too hard, Gerard's spine would break, his skin would shatter. It almost felt like it was a possibility. Gerard swallowed harshly, and shrugged. He didn't know if he wanted a drink. He didn't know whether his throat burned and his lips were dry because his breathing wouldn't fucking even out or whether it was lack of liquids. 

 

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had anything to eat or drink, actually. That probably wasn't a good thing. Mikey would get mad.

 

“C'mere, Gee, sit up,” Mikey cooed, pressing gently, still so fucking gently, on Gerard's shoulderblade. “You gotta have something, alright? Come here, have a little bit of water, alright? Just a little bit, please, for me.”

 

Gerard rolled over, slowly, to face his brother, blankets still pulled so tightly up around his chin that it was a lot more humid around his face than it was everywhere else in the room. His eyes felt burning, bruised, almost. He knew he'd probably cried at some point. He definitely had, actually. His face was wet and gross and he hated it. 

 

“Come on, I'll make sure you don't fall, it's alright, Gee,” Mikey said, and Gerard rose up a little on his elbow, his joints creaking as he moved. He felt fucking busted up. It was terrible. “Come on, sit up properly, don't wanna spill anything, alright?”

 

Gerard moved to sit up properly, and it felt like everything was running on autopilot. He wasn't entirely in his own body. He was still sort-of-breathing, if the erratic inhales and exhales that barely scraped his lungs most of the time could be referred to as breathing, he was still shaking and sweating and almost swallowing his own tongue. His fingers wouldn't let go of the blankets, not that he was entirely sure he wanted to let the little X-Wings and Millennium Falcons fall away just yet.

 

Mikey held a water bottle up to Gerard's mouth, slow and steady, his free hand resting softly on Gerard's lower back to make sure he didn't fall over. 

 

Gerard felt like some kind of fucking invalid. He hated this, he hated everything about it, the fact that Mikey had to keep him upright because he was too shaky and fragile to do it himself. He felt like a fucking child. He felt like a burden, possibly most of all, and that was possibly the worst part of it. 

 

Mikey was only trying to help and Gerard knew that, and he did a decent job of it. Shit was always less terrifying when Mikey was holding his hand. But at the same time, Mikey had his own shit, his own problems, his own bad dreams and demons, and he always had to clean up Gerard's fucking messes as well.

 

The water was icy, and felt almost overwhelming when he took a small sip. He always got sort of terrified of everything in existence when this sort of shit happened, sometimes even drinking water had him scared that his lungs would decide to breathe at the wrong time and he'd inhale a mouthful of water and choke. Logically, he knew it wouldn't be too bad, but it'd hurt regardless and he's not in the mood to deal with choking on liquids.

 

“Okay, good,” Mikey murmured, setting the bottle back down on the floor between his feet. “You gotta keep drinking water, alright?”

 

Gerard sniffled, curling his fingers in the blankets, and nodded slowly. “Yeah, I know.”

 

Mikey kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the bed, pulling up the blankets just a little so he could slide his legs in next to Gerard's. “This okay, Gee?”

 

“Yeah, 's okay,” Gerard mumbled, wiping at his eyes with the cotton sheet. He felt like shit. He looked like shit. He was fucking gross.

 

“Alright, c'mere. Lay down with me, alright?”

 

Gerard sniffled again, but eased himself back down into his ball of safe, curled up on his side facing the wall. Mikey might've wanted him to roll over, but that wasn't... Gerard wasn't up for facing the world. Mikey, he could deal with, Mikey was okay, but if his eyes darted to a movement of a shadow on the wall behind him, then that was the world, and the world was just overwhelming at the moment.

 

Mikey's knees dug into Gerard's thighs a little, and there was more than enough graceless fumbling with blankets and pillows for the both of them. Gerard's fingers relaxed slightly, just that little bit less vice-like on his sheets, when Mikey's arm wound under his neck and pulled him closer. 

 

“You could've called me, Gee,” Mikey murmured, his spiderlike fingertips brushing over the outside of Gerard's wrist underneath the blanket. He was starting to get callouses, now he'd started to play his bass more often. They weren't really noticeable, not yet, but Gerard could feel where the metal strings rubbed against his skin in contrast to where they didn't.

 

“Didn't wanna bother you, you know that,” Gerard mumbled in reply, curling in on himself even more. 

 

“Not the point,” Mikey sighed, pressing his forehead against Gerard's back, right between his shoulderblades. His glasses poked into Gerard's skin just slightly, even through his shirt. 

 

Gerard didn't say anything, and neither did Mikey. They just paused, the world stopped around them and Gerard was slowly regaining control of his lungs, slowly. Mikey had his other hand resting gently on Gerard's chest, making the slightest pushes to his ribcage, trying to help him get the rhythm of oxygen intake back. 

 

Mikey always knew two things: how to make Gerard breathe again, and how to make him stop.

 

Gerard's eyes were still wet, watery, his nose was starting to run again. This was possibly his second-most hated part, second only to the whole  _virtually-incapacitated-and-a-burden_ bullshit – looking like microwaved death. He didn't even know if he'd had eyeliner on before it had started, but if he had, it was definitely all over his face by now, in sticky-dry smears that made his eye sockets look melodramatic and hollowed out. He knew there were reddish-pink trails all over his cheeks, the paths where the tears had run down his face, there were probably marks on his neck as well from where he'd tried to claw at his skin in a failed attempt to make it stop. His head ached, too, that was because of two things – panics and crying always made his head ache, but he'd also tugged at his hair trying to get out of his own head as well, so that couldn't have helped at all.

 

“You're gonna be okay, Gee. Alright?” Mikey said, his voice soft, hand still gently pushing in-and-out on Gerard's chest. It was helping. It always helped. His head pounded and his body ached and he just wanted, all of a sudden, to do nothing else in the world but sleep, but Mikey helped. 

 

“Okay,” Gerard whimpered, barely-audible. He sounded like he'd been kicked in the throat, and it kind of felt like he had.

 

“Do you know, y'know, why?” Mikey asked.

 

Gerard sniffled again and shook his head, pressing back into Mikey's body. He didn't want to cry again. His head was sore and everything hurt and starting the whole fucking thing all over again was just going to make it infinitely more painful. 

 

“Come here, Gee. Come look at me, alright?” Mikey muttered, leaning back, allowing Gerard to roll over clumsily, still curled in on himself, blankets still tight around his neck. He didn't want to roll over at all, really, but he knew Mikey wouldn't let it drop until he did. It was like he needed visual confirmation that Gerard was, in fact, not going silently insane. 

 

Mikey tangled his fingers loosely in Gerard's hair, tentative, almost shy. He was always so fucking overcautious when Gerard was in a bad place, to the point where it was almost frustrating. There were times where gentle and calm and protective were exactly what Gerard needed, but there were also the times where he needed the opposite. Where he needed a literal smack to the face, to be told he was an idiot, and shoved against the wall with Mikey's knee between his thighs.

 

It was one of the times where he needed soft, though, so it was okay this time.

 

Gerard melted a little when Mikey's lips hit his, and there were two very distinct waves of sensation when his brother pulled him even closer and he parted his lips just-barely. The first, was the feeling of  _holy fuck I am going to burst into tears again please don't please_ , because fuck, it was too much, too much, he didn't deserve to have Mikey at all, let alone kissing him. The second, was this buzz in his lower stomach, this shakiness that was almost a vibration, something that might've made him want to fuck had the situation been different. It took the buzz straight out of his head, like the volume on the world's sound system had just been turned all the way down to a zero and the one from Mikey's mouth had shot up to a hundred.

 

“Fuck, Mikes, I love you,” Gerard whimpered, dropping the bedsheets and curling his arms awkwardly around Mikey's body instead, pulling him as close as humanly possible, tangling their legs together and holding on tight. “I just. Fuck, Mikey, I don't even know why, and I just-”

 

“Shh, Gee, come on,” Mikey cooed, brushing Gerard's hair out of his eyes. “Fuck, you really gotta wash your hair, dude.”

 

Gerard snorted, because of course, Mikey would make some kinda comment like that. He didn't mean it in a nasty way though, that was probably why it earned the tiniest little expression of a laugh. “Not tonight. Tomorrow.”

 

Mikey smiled. “Yeah. I'll wash it for you if mom and dad go out, yeah?”

 

Gerard cleared his throat and nodded, pressing his head into Mikey's sharp collarbones.

 

“Come here, you dork, come kiss me for a bit, and then you're eating pizza, okay?” 

 

Gerard groaned. Mikey knew what it was like, of all people. He knew the sleepiness and the headaches and bullshit. “But I fucking hurt, Mikes, please.”

 

Mikey tilted Gerard's head up with one finger, pressing a tiny peck to his lips. “Alright,” he sighed, looking at Gerard's face like he was trying to spot some kind of lie. “But you still gotta kiss me.”

 

Gerard nodded, and pressed his mouth to Mikey's, and everything was warm and he was breathing like a human being again.


End file.
